William Bliss Carman

The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such unelusive glories fall,
I almost dream they yet will bide
Until the coming of the tide.
And yet I know that not for us,
By any ecstasy of dream,
He lingers to keep luminous
A little while the grievous stream,
Which frets, uncomforted of dream—

A grievous stream, that to and fro
Athrough the fields of Acadie
Goes wandering, as if to know
Why one beloved face should

Lord of my heart’s elation,
Spirit of things unseen,
Be thou my aspiration
Consuming and serene!
Bear up, bear out, bear onward
This mortal soul alone,
To selfhood or oblivion,
Incredibly thine own,-
As the foamheads are loosened
And blown along the sea,
Or sink and merge forever
In that which bids them be.
…
I, too, must climb in wonder,
Uplift at thy command,-
Be one with my frail fellows
Beneath the wind’s strong hand,
….
A fleet and shadowy column
Of dust or mountain rain,
To walk

When the leaves are flying
Across the azure sky,
Autumn on the hill top
Turns to say good-by;
…
In her gold-red tunic,
Like an Eastern queen,
With untarnished courage
In her wilding mien.
….
All the earth below her
Answers to her gaze,
And her eyes are pensive
With remembered days.
…..
Yet, with cheek ensanguined,
Gay at heart she goes
On the great adventure
Where the north wind blows.
– Lines for a Picture by William Bliss Carman

When you hear the white-throat pealing
From a tree-top far away,
And the hills are touched with purple
At the borders of the day;
…
When the redwing sounds his whistle
At the coming on of spring,
And the joyous April pipers
Make the alder marshes ring;
…
When the wild new breath of being
Whispers to the world once more,
And before the shrine of beauty
Every spirit must adore;
…
When long thoughts come back with twilight,
And a tender deepened mood
Shows the

In the day of battle,
In the night of dread,
Let one hymn be lifted,
Let one prayer be said.
–
Not for pride of conquest,
Not for vengeance wrought,
Nor for peace and safety
With dishonour bought!
–
Praise for faith in freedom,
Our fighting fathers’ stay,
Born of dreams and daring,
Bred above dismay.
–
Prayer for cloudless vision,
And the valiant hand,
That the right may triumph
To the last demand.
– In The Day of Battle by William Bliss Carman

THROUGH the street of St. Germain
March the tattered hosts of rain,
–
While the wind with vagrant fife
Whips their chilly ranks to life.
–
From the window I can see
Their ghostly banners blowing free,
–
As they pass to where the ships
Crowd about the wharves and slips.
–
There at day’s end they embark
To invade the realms of dark,
–
And the sun comes out again
In the street of St. Germain.
– In St. Germain Street by William

NOW come the rosy dogwoods,
The golden tulip-tree,
And the scarlet yellow maple,
To make a day for me.
…
The ash-trees on the ridges,
The alders in the swamp,
Put on their red and purple
To join the autumn pomp.
…
The woodbine hangs her crimson
Along the pasture wall,
And all the bannered sumacs
Have heard the frosty call.
…
Who then so dead to valor
As not to raise a cheer,
When all the woods are marching
In triumph of the year?
– In October

Gold are the great trees overhead,
And gold the leaf-strewn grass,
As though a cloth of gold were spread
To let a seraph pass.
And where the pageant should go by,
Meadow and wood and stream,
The world is all of lacquered gold,
Expectant as a dream.
–
Against the sunset’s burning gold,
Etched in dark monotone
Behind its alley of grey trees
And gateposts of grey stone,
Stands the Old Manse, about whose eaves
An air of mystery clings,
Abandoned to the lonely

I loved thee, Atthis, in the long ago,
When the great oleanders were in flower
In the broad herded meadows full of sun.
And we would often at the fall of dusk
Wander together by the silver stream,
When the soft grass-heads were all wet with dew
And purple-misted in the fading light.
And joy I knew and sorrow at thy voice,
And the superb magnificence of love,-
The loneliness that saddens solitude,
And the sweet speech that makes

If death be good,
Why do the gods not die?
If life be ill,
Why do the gods still live?
If love be naught,
Why do the gods still love?
If love be all,
What should men do but love?
– William Bliss Carman

WHERE is Heaven? Is it not
Just a friendly garden plot,
Walled with stone and roofed with sun,
Where the days pass one by one,
Not too fast and not too slow,
Looking backward as they go
At the beauties left behind
To transport the pensive mind!

Is it not a greening ground
With a river for its bound,
And a wood-thrush to prolong
Fragrant twilights with his song,
When the peonies in June
Wait the rising of the moon,
And the music

When the dawn winds whisper
To the standing corn,
And the rose of morning
From the dark is born,
All my shadowy garden
Seems to grow aware
Of a fragrant presence,
Half expected there.

In the golden shimmer
Of the burning noon,
When the birds are silent,
And the poppies swoon,
Once more I behold her
Smile and turn her face,
With its infinite regard,
Its immortal grace.

When the twilight silvers
Every nodding flower,
And the new moon hallows
The first evening hour,
Is it not her footfall
Down

Within my stone-walled garden
(I see her standing now,
Uplifted in the twilight,
With glory on her brow!)

I love to walk at evening
And watch, when winds are low,
The new moon in the tree-tops,
Because she loved it so!

And there entranced I listen,
While flowers and winds confer,
And all their conversation
Is redolent of her.

I love the trees that guard it,
Upstanding and serene,
So noble, so undaunted,
Because that was her mien.

I love the brook that bounds it,
Because

THE fireflies across the dusk
Are flashing signals through the gloom-
Courageous messengers of light
That dare immensities of doom.

About the seeding meadow-grass,
Like busy watchmen in the street,
They come and go, they turn and pass,
Lighting the way for Beauty’s feet.

Or up they float on viewless wings
To twinkle high among the trees,
And rival with soft glimmerings
The shining of the Pleiades.

The stars that wheel above the hill
Are not more wonderful to see,
Nor the great

This is the story
Of Santo Domingo,
The first established
Permanent city
Built in the New World.

Miguel Dias,
A Spanish sailor
In the fleet of Columbus,
Fought with a captain,
Wounded him, then in fear
Fled from his punishment.

Ranging the wilds, he came
On a secluded
Indian village
Of the peace-loving
Comely Caguisas.
There he found shelter,
Food, fire, and hiding,-
Welcome unstinted.

Over this tribe ruled-
No cunning chieftain
Grown gray in world-craft,
But a young soft-eyed
Girl, tender-hearted,
Loving, and regal
Only in beauty,
With no suspicion
Of the perfidious
Merciless gold-lust
Of the

IF I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallows of Silvermine,
Blowing an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon began to shine;
Or say that, coming from town on Wednesday,
I met Christ walking in Ponus Street;
You might remark,
“Our friend is flighty! Visions, for want of enough red meat!”

Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was skating on Wampanaw,
Among the

I heard the spring wind whisper
Above the brushwood fire,
“The world is made forever
Of transport and desire.
“I am the breath of being,
The primal urge of things;
I am the whirl of star dust,
I am the lift of wings.
“I am the splendid impulse
That comes before the thought,
The joy and exaltation
Wherein the life is caught.

“Across the sleeping furrows
I call the buried seed,
And blade and bud and blossom
Awaken at my need.

“Within the dying ashes
I

This cosmic dust beneath our feet
Rising to hurry down the street,

Borne by the wind and blown astray
In its erratic, senseless way,

Is the same stuff as you and I-
With knowledge and desire put by.

Thousands of times since time began
It has been used for making man,

Freighted like us with every sense
Of spirit and intelligence,

To walk the world and know the fine
Large consciousness of things divine.

These wandering atoms in their day
Perhaps have

WHEN morning is high o’er the hilltops,
On river and stream and lake,
Wherever a young breeze whispers,
The sun-clad dancers wake.

One after one up-springing,
They flash from their dim retreat.
Merry as running laughter
Is the news of their twinkling feet.

Over the floors of azure
Wherever the wind-flaws run,
Sparkling, leaping, and racing,
Their antics scatter the sun.

As long as water ripples
And weather is clear and glad,
Day after day they are dancing,
Never a moment sad.

But when through

WHAT matter if the sun be lost?
What matter though the sky be gray?
There’s joy enough about the house,
For Daffodil comes home to-day.
–
There’s news of swallows on the air,
There’s word of April on the way,
They’re calling flowers within the street,
And Daffodil comes home to-day.
–
O who would care what fate may bring,
Or what the years may take away!
There’s life enough within the hour,
For Daffodil comes home to-day.
– Daffodil’s Return by William

ABOVE the weary waiting world,
Asleep in chill despair,
There breaks a sound of joyous bells
Upon the frosted air.
And o’er the humblest rooftree, lo,
A star is dancing on the snow.
…
What makes the yellow star to dance
Upon the brink of night?
What makes the breaking dawn to glow
So magically bright,-
And all the earth to be renewed
With infinite beatitude?
…
The singing bells, the throbbing star,
The sunbeams on the snow,
And the awakening heart that leaps
New ecstasy

The black ash grows in the swampy ground,
The white ash in the dry;
The thrush he holds to the woodland bound,
The hawk to the open sky.
…
The trout he runs to the mountain brook,
The swordfish keeps the sea;
The brown bear knows where the blueberry grows.
The clover calls the bee.
…
The locust sings in the August noon,
The frog in the April night;
The iris loves the meadow-land,
The laurel loves the height.
…
And each will hold

In Memory of John Keats
By the Aurelian Wall,
Where the long shadows of the centuries fall
From Caius Cestius’ tomb,
A weary mortal seeking rest found room
For quiet burial,
Leaving among his friends
A book of lyrics.
Such untold amends
A traveller might make
In a strange country, bidden to partake
Before he farther wends;

Who slyly should bestow
The foreign reed-flute they had seen him blow
And finger cunningly,
On one of the dark children standing by,
Then lift his cloak and

“He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul.”

My tent stands in a garden
Of aster and goldenrod,
Tilled by the rain and the sunshine,
And sown by the hand of God,-
An old New England pasture
Abandoned to peace and time,
And by the magic of beauty
Reclaimed to the sublime.

About it are golden woodlands
Of tulip and hickory;
On the open ridge behind it
You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-
The far-off, blue, Homeric
Rim

WHEN April winds arrive
And the soft rains are here,
Some morning by the roadside
These Fairy folk appear.
.
We never see their coming,
However sharp our eyes;
Each year as if by magic
They take us by surprise.
..
Along the ragged woodside
And by the green spring-run,
Their small white heads are nodding
And twinkling in the sun.
…
They crowd across the meadow
In innocence and mirth,
As if there were no sorrow
In all this wondrous earth.
….
So frail, so unregarded,
And yet about